


Frenetic

by myystic (neoinean)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-10
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neoinean/pseuds/myystic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter gets shot. Neal blames himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frenetic

**Author's Note:**

> Story idea courtesy of the kink meme. Prompt: _Peter/Neal. Peter gets hurt during a chase; Neal grows worried and acts like a mother-hen. Hurt/comfort is my kink =x_
> 
> Gen with canon Peter/El. Or pre-slash/pre-OT3 so BYO goggles.

It was his fault.

He was the one who'd spotted Andrews. He was the one who'd shouted, louder than was strictly necessary because Peter had been standing at least twenty feet away, talking to the valet. He was the one who'd run off half-cocked when Andrews bolted, knowing beyond all doubt that his trusty FBI agent was sure to follow. Man had built a _career_ out of chasing him, after all, and had not once let him forget it.

He was the one to go all-in and bet the house on Peter's skill. He was the one who let it ride, because Peter was craftier than an inside straight, stronger than a king-high flush, safer than pocket aces.

And he was the one who forgot, right when it mattered the most, that the house doesn't care what cards you've got because the house always, _always_ finds a way to win. All his fault, then.

 _All_ of it.

He was the one to chase Andrews back into the hotel (Peter shouting at him to stop), across the lobby (Peter shouting at _them_ to stop, once his head caught up with his instincts), through a staff door (Peter shouting for the crowd to get the hell out of the way) and then up two flights of stairs (Peter shouting "FBI -- Freeze!") and into the one of the banquet kitchens.

 _He_ was the one who'd shouted -- "gun!" -- when Andrews pulled his weapon. He was the one who'd spun so fast he slipped, sliding to his ass and then diving for an opened freezer just as the shots were fired. He was the one who'd cheered the sous chef when the man did something with elbows and feet and Ginsu knives that had Andrews on the floor not six seconds later, totally out cold, his gun kicked into a corner.

He was the one Andrews had been aiming for. He was the one who'd dodged away.

He was the one who forgot that Peter was rushing in _right behind him_. He was the one who didn't even fucking _notice_ that something wasn't right until he was back on his feet again, wondering why Peter wasn't cuffing Andrews yet.

Then he was the one ripping open Peter's suit. He was the one pressing down against Peter's chest, trying to stop the bleeding. He was the one shouting orders, identifying them both as FBI and begging the staff to call an ambulance. He was the one who let the _rôtisseur_ lock Andrews in the freezer because his hands were too full of Peter's blood to grab for Peter's cuffs. (He _wasn't_ the one who had them turn up the temperature so that Andrews wouldn't freeze to death, because with Peter lying there so still and pale and _cold_ \-- well. He was the one who wanted the sous chef to use those Ginsu knives to fucking _flay_ the bastard so that Moz could turn his ass into thief-skin vellum.)

He was the one the paramedics had to shove out of the way. He was the one who stood back and watched as they did things he didn't know with equipment he couldn't name, trying to save Peter's life. He was the one who followed them down two flights of stairs because the elevator wasn't fast enough, who followed them through the staff door and across the lobby and out to the curb where the ambulance was waiting in valet.

He was the one they wouldn't let ride with Peter, because they needed all the room they could get. He was the one they left standing there, Peter's blood on his hands (on his sleeves, his tie, his shoes, his knees). He was the one who gave the local PD directions because they were first on the scene, the one who told them where to collect Andrews and where they could deliver him.

He was the one who tried to call Jones, call Cruz, call Hughes, call _someone_ to tell them what had happened. But he was the one whose fingers kept slipping off the buttons, whose hand shook so bad he dropped the phone, who kicked it _hard_ into the side of the building instead of bending over to pick it up again. He was the one who knew that bending over would be all the invitation his stomach needed to let him know just what it thought about smelling Peter's blood, about how the smell was so thick he could actually _taste_ it, heavy and cloying and metallic and--

He was the one Cruz found in the gutter, puking his guts out (wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting the blood there and then puking all over again).

He was the one who sat on an FBI windbreaker on the way to the hospital so that he wouldn't stain the upholstery. He was the one who had to explain -- _repeatedly_ \-- that he was actually fine, that it wasn't his blood, until someone took pity on him and gave him a pair of scrubs to wear. He was the one who spent half an hour in the bathroom, banishing Sy Devore to the bottom of the trash bin, scrubbing Peter Burke from his skin (wondering _how the fuck_ to clean Peter Burke from his tracker without setting off the alarm).

He was the one who had to scrape himself down off the ceiling when someone knocked on the door. He was the one who snapped at Jones to back the fuck off and worry about Peter instead. (He was the one too chickenshit to _ask_ about Peter, because as long as he didn't know then he could go on pretending that everything would be alright.)

He was the one who would rather spend the rest of his life in prison -- on a trumped up charge -- than walk back into the waiting room.

He was the one who Elizabeth didn't give much of choice.

He was the one she put her arms around, the one who dropped his head onto her shoulder and breathed in her scent (the vanilla of her shampoo and the lilac of her perfume and the mint of her toothpaste and the -- the _other_ , the Elizabethness, the _je ne sais quoi_ that turned his thoughts towards home).

He was the one who told her what happened, the one who confessed (the one who refused absolution). He was the one who should have taken that bullet, the one who should be in surgery, the one who should be might-be-dying.

He was the one who Elizabeth slapped, the one who Elizabeth kissed, the one who Elizabeth absolutely refused to blame.

And he was the one Elizabeth clung to, there in that sterile hospital bathroom. The one she absolutely refused to cry in front of (the one who held her close enough so that he wouldn't have to see the tears when she cried anyway).

He was the one who sat in the end chair, the one everyone passed on their way to the water cooler. He was the one Elizabeth sat next to, tall and stoic and separate and _brave_. He was the one whose hand she trapped in both of hers, the one who would have bruises there when this was over (the one who needed her to _hold him there_ or else he might up and run away for good).

He was the one the FBI kept sending dirty looks, regardless of whether or not he was paying attention. He was the one everyone but Elizabeth wished had been shot instead, including him. (He was the one Elizabeth wished had been shot instead even if she was too good a person to ever breathe the thought aloud, but still he heard it anyway.)

And he was the one they all forgot, minutes or hours or eternities later when the doctor came out announcing that Peter was in recovery, that Peter had been touch-and-go, that Peter had lost a lot of blood and that the next twenty-four hours were critical. He was the one who sat, bereft, when a tidal wave of FBI washed Elizabeth down the hall and out of sight.

He was the one whose eyes couldn't cry because the backs of his eyelids still saw Peter's face, all slack and pale and _lifeless_ , and the horror of it trumped all else. He was the one who was _glad_ of that fact, because he didn't remember the last time he cried in front of anyone who wasn't Kate, and he wondered how horrible that made him.

He was the one they wouldn't let into Peter's room, not even for a minute. Though that might be because he was the one who didn't ask, the one who knew he couldn't handle seeing Peter weak or frail or vulnerable (the one who knew _exactly_ how horrible that made him).

He was the one that Jones finally drove home, in silence and in subtext. He was the one who didn't apologize, because Jones was the one who just might snap if he heard it. He was the one who let himself into June's mansion and all its fine and refined wealth, and he was the one who would have traded the whole house and everything in it -- both his and not his (and everything that _was_ his, everywhere that wasn't here) -- if it would turn back time and give him this day to live over again.

He was the one who showered until the water ran cold, trying to rinse the memories away (the one who sat in the shower under the freezing spray until his fingers were white and his feet were purple and his teeth threatened to chatter out of his skull). He was the one who paced a groove in June's floor, the one who straightened his suite within an inch of its life (the one who smashed four ceramic figurines and one antique Waterford vase, the one who knelt bare on shards of clay and was clumsy with the dustpan, the one who sliced his finger open and whose knees were spangled crimson.)

He was the one who raided his own cache of art supplies, who pulled out every last tube and tub and tray of paint he owned and then all of his brushes, old and new and still-not-dry. He was the one who shoved his bed aside and stood in the dust bunnies to turn his entire bedroom wall into fresco-secco, half lyrical abstraction and half mindless distraction until his head was clear and his hands were still and the _redredRED_ he was covered in was oil and acrylic and watercolor and gouache, was harmless and familiar and comforting.

He was the one June found on the roof, still stained all the colors of _emotional vomit_ , an hour shy of breakfast. Because he _wasn't_ the one that Elizabeth called to say that Peter had woken up, that Peter had looked up at her in recognition, had whispered her name in adoration before drifting off to sleep again. He _wasn't_ the one she'd called to reassure that the doctors were mostly (mostly) certain that Peter was going to be ok. He wasn't the one she called, because his phone was lying in pieces against the Waldorf Astoria, and it was just as well that Peter had slept (lain _comatose_ ) through the night because it had taken her that long to remember she could get June's number from anyone in Peter's office.

He was the one who was showered and dressed (the one who _bleached his skin_ as the most expedient method of paint removal and relied on his hat to cover what hadn't washed out of his hair) thirty minutes later, when Cruz pulled up to the curb. He was the one that got driven to headquarters instead of the hospital, the one they sat on the business end of the interrogation table and forced to relive "the events of yesterday" until they were satisfied, until he could see and smell and hear and taste and touch it all again so clearly and all so that they could dot their i's and cross their t's and make sure everything looked nice on the reports.

He was the one who didn't need the help, because he still saw it all in glorious slow motion technicolor detail, each and every time he closed his eyes.

He was the one who didn't know in what capacity he was being questioned, who didn't know if he was being blamed officially, who didn't know what they would _do to him_ , the one who got Peter shot, their friend/coworker/boss/subordinate/ _favorite_ \-- until Diana put a stop to it all by saying that Peter was awake and asking for Neal.

Then he was the one who Peter didn't stay awake _for_ , after Jones had driven him back to the hospital. He was the one who'd been up for twenty-nine hours straight by the time he was actually confronted with the image of Peter in a hospital bed, surrounded by tubes and wires and disturbingly noisy machines. He was the one who stopped short, the one who Elizabeth took by the hand, the one who heard _sound_ instead of words and who saw Peter still and pale and quiet and peaceful--

And he was the one with Elizabeth's hands resting cool against his flushed cheeks, the one who was forced to look into Elizabeth's eyes, wide and exhausted and earnest and sans-makeup and shining like twin bruises in her face. He was the one she was speaking to, the one she was undoubtedly asking after, and likewise he was the one who knew he should answer her, knew that it would be rude not to -- but then he was the one who suddenly realized that he _didn't know how_.

He was the one who'd finally gone straight through feeling and out the other side.

He was the one who was only allowed to stay with Peter for as long as Jones was _willing_ to stay with Peter. Granted, Jones still had a job to go to, and it wasn't really fair to hold that against him, so he _wasn't_ the one who blamed the FBI for the reason no one who wasn't Peter (or Elizabeth) seemed to trust him anywhere outside his strict two miles. He _wasn't_ the one who'd fallen back on pettiness, or bitterness, or even outright begging when Jones announced that it was time to go, now.

He was just the one who'd already lifted Jones' cuffs a good hour before, the one who took the announcement as his cue to go ahead and _cuff himself to Peter's bed rail_ and happily reveal that he'd dropped the key into the sharps disposal (a lie: it was stuffed into his sock -- couldn't risk something going wrong with Peter with him stuck in the way -- but Jones didn't need to know that). He was the one who Jones -- grumbling -- said that he would vouch for, the one who cheerfully waved the agent goodbye.

He was the one that Elizabeth brought a cheese danish from the cafeteria for but knew without asking not to bring coffee, because he was the one who, now that he was finally here, absolutely refused to leave Peter's bedside for anything short of a medical emergency, and didn't want to betray his convictions by having to pee. (He was the one who had to pee _anyway_ , two hours later, and so he was the one to finally make Elizabeth laugh again, when he fished the key out of his sock and hurried to the bathroom and back.)

Finally though he was the one who fell asleep, head pillowed awkwardly on his arm slung across the bed rail. He was the one whose gentle snores (more like slightly wheezy breathing) finally woke Peter from another protracted nap. His slumped and slumbering form was the first thing that Peter saw, before he blinked and glanced around to find Elizabeth grinning down at him from the chair at his other side.

"El?" he croaked, his voice barely recognizable.

"Hey, handsome." She fed him ice chips. They tasted like heaven. "How do you feel?" She brought his fingers to her lips and kissed them.

Peter took a moment to think about it. "They've got me on the good drugs, huh."

That earned a watery smile. "Yeah." A nod. "Yeah honey, they do."

"Thought so." He closed his eyes again, almost drifted off, but alas his head wasn't through with him yet. "El, why is Neal cuffed to the bed?"

"It was the only way they'd let him stay."

"Oh." Peter accepted that because he was medicated. A lot of nonsensical things made sense when he was medicated. Except... "Whose bright idea was that?"

Elizabeth's grin was the brightest he'd seen since he first woke up. Of course, _that_ grin could have shamed the sun, so it really wasn't a fair comparison. "Neal's. But don't worry, he's got the key."

"But--"

"From Jones. When he wasn't looking."

"Oh." Peter felt himself drifting again, pulled by the gentle undertow of whatever was swimming through his veins. His head lolled a bit, slid lazily back over until his eyes settled on Neal again. He had to admit, the lengths that Neal was willing to to go in order to be there for him to contemplate warmed him straight down to his toes.

But wait, "El? Is that _paint_ in his ear?"

He felt her squeeze his hand again -- quick and jerky, a reflex more than anything -- before he heard her voice.

"Go easy on him, Peter. He's had a rough day."

 

- _fin_ -


End file.
